Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 61248 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 306(@200wpm)___ 245(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61248 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 306(@200wpm)___ 245(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
“Yes.”
“At any time—”
“I can say no. I know that, too. Yes, Ethan, but stop talking. It’s making me a little crazy.”
He kisses me, a possessive, own-me kiss, before he orders, “Lay over my lap, baby.” His hands slip away from me, as if he’s offering me a final choice, my last chance to back out. Or maybe he’s simply telling me this has to be my decision. He can want all day. I’m the only one who gets to say yes.
This is my decision.
And I can almost feel him holding his breath to find out what I’ll do next.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Sofia
Iwant him to spank me. Admitting that to myself is empowering. Arousing. My skin is flushed, my cheeks hot, my body hotter, and I dare submit to Ethan. I lean forward, reach over his lap, and press my hands to the couch on the other side of his thigh, effectively draping my body over the top of his lap, offering myself to him.
And in response, he doesn’t touch me.
Long seconds tick by, and he leaves me like that—naked, exposed, at his mercy—and it feels like a test, as if he’s allowing me the chance to back out, to run all over again. But I will not run. I’m here. I’m staying. And no matter where that leads, no matter how we might break each other, I can only hope we put each other back together. We hold onto each other. “Ethan, please,” I whisper, losing my mind, my body tingling, my nerves on edge, and then, only then, does his hand settle warmly on my lower spine.
“So fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice low and gravelly, and there is something about his tone that clenches my belly and slicks my thighs.
His palm travels up my spine, a gentle caress so unlike the spanking I’m expecting, but somehow, I know that’s the idea. The wait. The contrast. The anticipation. It’s all part of the seduction, the pleasure. There’s a high to it I do not expect, and I wonder if it’s simply handing him control, letting him drive when all I’ve done for years is steer away from anything that might add a spark to life, but it comes with risk.
He’s a risk; maybe he’s even trouble.
I know this, and I don’t seem to care.
And if trouble is what this is, trouble is exactly where I want to crash and burn.
I know now that I’ve needed something I couldn’t name, something unreachable, something that he’s answered with his touch, his hands and mouth on my body. Him pushing me, claiming me. He leans in and presses his mouth between my shoulder blades, and I pant with the shock of it.
“Easy, baby,” he murmurs, trailing fingers down my spine, goosebumps lifting in their wake, one hand sliding under my belly and lifting my backside in the air. He caresses my left cheek with one hand, and with the other his fingers slip between my legs, teasing my clit, and Lord help me, I’m rocking against his hand, so wet and aroused I ache with need.
He gives my backside a tiny tap, and when I gasp, expecting more, ready for it, he does it again and again, a steady, gentle patting, and I have this sense he’s getting me used to his hand on my backside. Just as I settle into the moment, the fingers of his other hand find my clit again, teasing it, flicking it, and then, cupping my sex, his fingers teasing me as he does, and I have no control, no willpower. I start rocking again, little whimpers sliding from me, and I’m close, so very close to coming when he just stops, leaving me gasping, needy, desperate.
“Ethan.”
“Count with me,” he reminds me, and he’s caressing my right cheek as if warming it.
I’m still halfway to orgasm, my brain foggy, as he adds, “Five times. Now, baby. Ready?”
“Yes,” I breathe out, needing everything and needing it almost too much. “Yes.”
“Count. Now.”
His palm comes down on my backside, and my back arches with the sting. “One,” he calls out, but I can’t say it with him. “Two,” he is already saying, and when I feel his hand, it’s a deeper sting, and I cry out. “Oh, God.”
“Count,” he demands. “Three,” he says. “Say it.”
“Three,” I pant out, and the next smack is there.
“Four,” he says. “Sofia—”
“Four!” I yell out, my fingers curling in my palms with the burn that follows.
“Five.”
We say it together, and the bite of his hand on my skin has me gasping.
But it’s over, it’s done, and I can feel myself trembling, adrenaline lighting me up, and I barely know when he pulls me into his arms, cradling me close and cupping my face. “Tell me what you feel.” There is concern in his voice, tenderness. Not gloating. Not satisfaction. He wants me to be okay. He wants me to have liked what he did to me.